


The Trial

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, M/M, Trial by Combat, basically., this is not serious its just jokes and gay people, which is all ofmy fics to be fair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: Gawain returned to perusal. “I doubt this actually has anything I don't know. Not to brag, but I--” he stared for a long moment then chuckled sheepishly. “I am a dumbass.”“I assume you found something, and aren’t just uh, having a crisis?” Lancelot asked hopefully. “Er, for what it’s worth I don't think-- I mean, you’re very smart.”“Aw,” Gawain said, with a pleased flush. “Thanks. So, do you want to help me kill my uncle and usurp his throne?”
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	The Trial

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a joke about lancelot killing arthur but then i made it kind of sweet. then it got jokes again. its a real rollercoaster of "i did too much research into medieval trials and then used none of it" but everyone look up the trial of the cross its really funny i promise

“So,” Gawain said, plunking a thick book down on the table. “Options.”

“Wait, I'm not being-- you know, executed?” Lancelot asked, confused.

Gawain raised a finger and grinned, “not yet!”

“Oh. Good. Great. I love not being executed,” Lancelot said, sort of dazed. Many events had occurred in a short span of time and they had all ranged from awful to embarrassing. And they had ended in a cell, accused of having a years-long affair with the wife of the high king, which wasn’t ideal.

“Right. So let's get into it. Obviously, a traditional trial would be a farce, everyone thinks you're guilty. And besides, Arthur’s the judge,” he added in afterthought.

“Everyone thinks I’m guilty?” Lancelot asked wretchedly. “But we didn't--”

Gawain shrugged. “yeah, sorry. To be honest I thought you were having an affair for years. Both of you are my closest friends who I trust implicitly and I still barely believe you.”

Lancelot blinked. “Oh.”

Apparently feeling he'd resolved whatever that was, Gawain turned back to the book. “So, Trial by Ordeal is an option. How long can you hold your breath?”

He considered it. “A few hours?”

“Fuck, that's hot.”

“It is?”

“The problem with Trial by Ordeal,” Gawain said, ignoring this question, “Is that you don’t get to pick the method, the highest-ranking church official, id est Bishop Baldwin, does. So we would have to hope he randomly picks trial by water, or try to convince him, which is no good because the only person he hates more than Guinevere is you.”

“People just don’t  _ like _ me,” Lancelot realized aloud. Being in the prison cell of a man you had until yesterday been Champion of leads one to consider their place in the world and relationships to the people in it, and for Lancelot, these considerations were trending towards gloom. “Or they like me way too much.”

Gawain turned the page, not looking up. “It is a gift and a curse to be considered only in wild extremes. You are not a man to inspire ambivalence.”

“And you are?”

Gawain considered this. “No, I don't think so. I inspire a lot of feelings,” he smirked. “Most of them unchristian. How are you walking over hot coals?”

“Uh. I’d rather not?”

“Understandable! But that leaves us with combat. Now, Arthur would demand I represent him, and I’d really rather not fight you to the death, I think you would agree.”

“Oh, God.” Lancelot grimaced. “That would be awful. I could never kill you.”

Gawain huffed in faux annoyance. “Well, don’t assume you’d win. I might win.”

“Oh, no, sure. You might.” Lancelot granted generously, sensing the possibility of this legal council meeting devolving into a wrestling match rising every second.

“Why’d you say it like that?” He demanded, with a slight smile.

“I didn’t say it like anything.”

“No, no,” Gawain waved a hand. “Please, Sir, if you think you could kill me in a formal deathmatch come out and say it. I value honesty between friends.”

“I…..” Lancelot trailed off hopelessly, then laughed. “There’s no winning with you. Is there anything actually helpful in that book, or did you just bring it here for, for dramatic...” he tried to remember the word.

“Flair?” Gawain provided helpfully. “Yeah, mostly.”

He returned to perusal. “I doubt this actually has anything I don't know. Not to brag, but I--” he stared for a long moment then chuckled sheepishly. “I am a dumbass.”

“I assume you found something, and aren’t just uh, having a crisis?” Lancelot asked hopefully. “Er, for what it’s worth I don't think-- I mean, you’re very smart.” 

“Aw,” Gawain said, with a pleased flush. “Thanks. So, do you want to help me kill my uncle and usurp his throne?”

* * *

Arthur was not happy when all the law clerks and scholars confirmed Gawain’s assertion. But Arthur also drowned a ship of babies and tried to skin his wife alive, so Gawain didn’t particularly care. Neither did Guinevere, who was wearing a very fine red dress and watching the preparation of the arena like a Roman noblewoman in the imperial box of the Flavian Amphitheatre.

In fact, as the morning wore on towards the scheduled duel between the King and his former best knight, the whole thing took on a festival atmosphere. Stalls selling perfumes, silks and food sprung up and the whole town put on their best clothes and arrived en masse.

“These are really good. You should have one,” Gawain said, gesturing offhandedly with some sort of pastry in one hand.

“Gawain I am about to kill my liege lord in ritual combat, I don’t want gingerbread,” Lancelot near-whispered, glaring at the helmet in his scarred hands. It leered back at him.

Shrugging, Gawain went back to stuffing himself with baked goods. “Don't worry,” He said between bites, “if he yields and admits he was wrong, he’ll be disgraced and give up his claim, but he’ll live. Just try not to go all, you know, battle rage.”

“Hng.” Said Lancelot, not remotely hopeful on that account.

“Look,” Gawain said, perhaps realizing he was being a bit callous. “It'll all work out fine. It’d be awfully stupid for all of this to go to shit over something so ridiculous as this.”

“Stupid things go wrong for me all the time.” 

Gawain reached out and ran a hand through his hair. It was oddly comforting. 

“Well, they don't for me. So think of it as my endeavour, where nothing is allowed to go wrong.”

“That's the most reassuring thing you've said so far,” Lancelot said grimly. Nevertheless, he was calmed enough to put on his helmet and walk to the entranceway where a horse was waiting. 

“Would you feel better if you had a favour to wear?” Gawain asked, thoughtful.

Lancelot turned back. “Whose?”

“Mine?”

“Oh! I-- yes,” and he did actually think he’d feel better, embarrassingly

There was a moment of collective surprise and realization, when the knight in red rode out, crimson split with one emerald band. The king's heir, who was leagues better liked, if they were being honest, was actively siding against him.

The crowd was rapidly turning to the defendant, who sat well, sure but humble, across from a king more used to feasting that riding. When Gawain joined Guinevere in the royal box, there was a cheer, which he accepted gracefully. 

They began, Arthur being rapidly unhorsed. Lancelot allowed him to remount and be brought a new lance, rather than going to blades, and promptly unhorsed him again. Both these events were met with cheers and a few wolf whistles, at which Gawain promptly frowned and called for silence.

They went to blades, Arthur with Excalibur, but Lancelot not with the red hilted sword that would match his armour, but another, a dark mirror to that of his lord across from him. The red hilted sword, Gawain had explained, was “probably cursed or something,” and Lancelot, concurring, threw it in the moat.

The blades were drawn, Arthur took a step forward--

\-- and dropped the famed blade Excalibur in the dirt. Confused, he looked at his hands, and picked it up again. No sooner had his gauntleted fingers brushed it than he swore and dropped it again.

“Oh,” Lancelot said to himself, having just remembered where exactly the legendary weapon had come from. “You should probably yield.”

Arthur swore again, then stumbled back a step, ripped off his helmet and threw it down to join his sword, a small cloud of dust rising.

“I yield, damn you.”

There was a shocked silence, interrupted by a cheer from, of course, Mordred. The rest joined, and soon the former King Arthur Pendragon was standing at the heart of his court, unarmed and uncrowned, as his people applauded his defeat. 

He left the next morning, with a few still loyal attendants, and Lucan, who promised to “keep an eye on him.” 

The whole venture was overseen by Gawain, stepping seamlessly into the role he'd been performing behind closed doors for years. Guinevere remained in power as the “Queen Mother” which annoyed her a tad and amused Gawain immensely. Mordred was set up as the official heir, which was all he really wanted, and most of the real power lay with Kay, likely the best place for it. To his immense horror, Agravaine was now the lord of Orkney, and was coping mainly by staring with blank shock into the middle distance. 

The man who effectively started the whole affair had very little to do with the end of it, aside from accepting the new king's gratitude, which was certainly thorough and immediate. He didn't even get the chance to take his armour off, which did present some logistical challenges, but ultimately a satisfactory arrangement was reached.

“Well,” Gawain said much later that night, “I would say that whole affair resolved itself happily.”

“yeah,” Lancelot agreed breathlessly. Sobering rapidly, he rolled over to face the king. “that could have gone really bad. we all could have died.”

“I don't see how. between the two, of us, together, I think we can handle whatever problems we create.” 

Lancelot wanted to say that he hadn't actually done anything, and the problems had all been created by Gawain’s terrible uncle and wretched brothers being paranoid and weirdly obsessed with his sex life. But he was warm and comfortable and tired and everything  _ had _ worked out pretty well. 

“Better than being executed,” he smiled softly, already half asleep. The last thing he was aware of before he slipped from consciousness was Gawain's quiet hum of agreement, and fingers running through his hair. Then,

“Gods, I was sure you were going to cut that old bastard into fillets. Oh, well, next time.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
